


It's All Greek To Me

by prettysailorsoldier



Series: 25 Days of Johnlock [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkwardness, Bisexual John, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, M/M, Secret Santa, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-28 01:15:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2713550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettysailorsoldier/pseuds/prettysailorsoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i><b>Prompt:</b> Secret Santa! They haven't met but have friends in common/go to the same school and end up having to buy gifts for each other - linniess</i>
</p>
<p>John knows very little about the brunette boy in the back of his homeroom, always managing to make a spectacular fool of himself every time he tries to talk to him. So, when he pulls Sherlock's name for the class Secret Santa exchange, he's more than a little panicked, and, with the clock ticking down, he's going to have to figure something out, and fast!</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's All Greek To Me

**Author's Note:**

> While I cannot guarantee I will be able to write your prompt, there is always a lot of overlap and/or combining, so feel free to keep submitting them to me up until the end of the series! You can leave your prompts in comments here on ao3, or on [my Tumblr](http://thelittlebitofeverythinggirl.tumblr.com/).

“Hey, John!”

John froze, his mind racing through every possibly objectionable thing he had done that day. Slammed his locker door a little too loud? Chewed with his mouth open? Were his colors clashing? He turned, plucking at his forest green jumper as he looked at his jeans—clean, might he add. “What?” he muttered, genuinely perplexed as Irene Adler clicked toward him.

She huffed, rolling her eyes as she drew up beside him on the pavement outside the school. Her arm stretched out, what appeared to be the worn fedora that John thought had permanently fused itself to the lost and found shelf in her hand.

He quirked a brow, looking back up to her eyes. “Ya gonna pull out a rabbit?” he clipped, and Irene sneered.

“No,” she sniffed, rattling the hat at him, “you didn’t pick out a name for the Secret Santa.”

John tipped his head, adjusting the strap of his backpack where it hung off his shoulder. “The what now?”

Irene’s arm dropped as she let out a sigh John’s thirteen-year-old sister would be proud of. “I _told_ you this morning! I’m organizing a Secret Santa for our homeroom.”

“Why?” John grimaced, and Irene’s eyes snapped to slivers.

“Because it’s festive, now pick a damn name!” she snarled, jabbing at John’s jumper with the brim of the hat, and John lifted his hands in surrender.

“Alright, alright,” he murmured, shaking his head as he leaned forward, trying to peer inside, but Irene snatched the contents out of sight, lifting the hat over his head. He dipped his chin, fixing her with a flat look. “Really?” he deadpanned, but she only grinned. His jaw shifted in irritation, but, with a huff, he stretched an arm up, groping blindly until his fingertips touched a slip of paper. Pinching it between his middle and index finger, he pulled it free, flicking it open in front of his face. His eyes widened, his grip weakening nearly enough to let the name be blown loose by the wind, and then he swallowed, looking frantically back to Irene. “Can I draw again?”

She shook her head, sweeping the fedora behind her back. “No take backsies!” she sang, already retreating, and John moved after her.

“No, I- Irene!”

“I can’t, John,” she insisted, shaking her head, and, though her eyes seemed sympathetic, the slight twist of her mouth did not. “If I let you trade, I’d have to let everybody trade, and that would be a madhouse.”

“But I need-”

She cut him off, rattling her head again. “You’ll be fine,” she assured, the sincere expression startling on her face, pulling John up short a moment. “It’s not like it needs to be grand; there’s a 15 quid limit. And you’ve still got almost two weeks.”

John’s mouth shifted, soundless apart from the strangled clicks of his throat. “But-” he finally managed to stammer, but Irene lifted a hand.

“Save it,” she said, her tone brokering no argument, and John’s lips pursed shut as he glared. “You pulled the person, you buy for the person. Simple as that. And, really,” she muttered, rolling her eyes as she turned away, “how bad could it be?”

John watched her walk away, the slip of paper stinging against his skin. He looked down, turning the scrap over in his fingers, Irene’s swooping handwriting looking up at him in blue loops and lines that read like doom even though they said ‘Sherlock Holmes’.

“Yeah,” he muttered bitterly, pinching the paper shut and sliding it into his back pocket, “how bad could it be…”

*****

The thing about Sherlock Holmes was John didn’t know a damn thing about Sherlock Holmes.

They’d been in the same homeroom for two years, now in their final year before sixth form, and all John had managed to amass were a handful of odd facts.

Sherlock was in all the advanced classes, and always sitting in the back, somehow knowing the right answers even though he only ever looked out the window. He’d been bullied a bit at first, his thin frame and uncanny intelligence a natural target, but that had ended quickly enough, even brutes apparently none too keen on getting the stuffing verbally beaten out of them, as Sherlock was wont to do. His family was loaded, family money going back generations, but John had only ever seen an elderly woman picking him up, someone Irene—who knew him considerably better than John—had told him was the housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock always wore dress shirts and suit trousers, his oxfords never anything but impeccably polished. His skin was so pale, John imagined he must always be wearing sunscreen, and his sharp cheekbones blocked the dreary fluorescents of the classrooms in shadows down in face while he worked, brow wrinkled in concentration that was most assuredly not devoted to his studies. He had at least four shades of brown in his hair when the sunlight caught it, his eyes constantly shifting between hues of blue and green, and, when he was really thinking, he’d rest the tip of his pen on his bottom lip, sometimes leaving a spot of blue ink that would linger for an hour or so.

Okay, so maybe John knew quite a bit about Sherlock Holmes, but that didn’t mean he knew _him_ , and especially not well enough to be buying him a present. They had had three significant conversations the entire time they had been academic acquaintances, and John had made an ass of himself every single time.

The first time had been introductions, the horrible icebreaker activity on their first day with the new homeroom groups. Somehow—because fate was a sadist—John had ended up sitting next to Sherlock, requiring them to spend three minutes ‘getting to know one another’ as the well-meaning, but deeply misguided, Mrs. Lockerd had said. They went through the required questions that had been written up on the board—name, hobbies, what you did over the summer, etc.—and then had awkwardly fallen silent, Sherlock seeming unbothered while John’s foot tapped anxiously.

“So,” he had suddenly blurted, snapping his head to the brunette, “do ya have any pets?”

Sherlock had only raised a brow. “A dog. Redbeard,” he’d replied, and John could still remember his voice, still feel the stutter of his heart that the deep rumble provoked. “He died last month,” Sherlock had added, like commenting on the weather, and had thankfully turned back to the front of the room before John’s mouth dropped.

“Oh,” he had squeaked in response, swallowing shame as he blinked down at his desk. “Sorry,” he’d murmured, and Sherlock had made some sort of indistinct noise of acknowledgement before turning back to his notebook, the conversation beyond saving.

The second time had been only marginally better, John literally running directly into a confrontation between Sherlock and a player from the opposing rugby team he’d just had a personal hand in slaughtering.

“Hey!” he’d shouted, rounding the bleachers to find the argument already nearly at blows, a blond boy in a yellow jersey glaring down at a red-faced and furious Sherlock. “Leave him alone!” he had added, and he would never know why he had said that, why he couldn’t have said something normal like ‘Cut it out!’ or ‘Bugger off!’, but, regardless, that had come out of his mouth, and the blond boy had turned to him, something like triumph in his eyes.

“Well,” he’d chirped, smirking back to Sherlock, “it seems you have a type,” and, if Sherlock had been red before, he was about to explode now.

“Your coach is leaving,” John had interrupted, stepping almost between them. “Wouldn’t wanna get left behind.”

The blond had just grinned, eyes never leaving Sherlock. “I dunno, it might not be all bad,” he’d crooned, tilting his head, and John’s fist had cracked. “You’d put me up, wouldn’t ya, Sherls? For old time’s sake?”

John hoped he never again in his life was that close to anything that made the sound that came out of Sherlock, a snarl that made every hair on John’s body take flight, and the brunette had lunged forward, John grabbing his arm to hold him back. “Don’t!” he’d hissed, and the look Sherlock gave him had flash-frozen his blood.

The blond man just laughed, turning away, ‘Trevor’ emblazoned on his retreating back. “Later, Sherlock!” he’d called, flicking a wave and a wink over his shoulder, and John tightened his grip on the brunette’s arm as he felt the bicep shift.

The second he was out of sight, Sherlock had ripped his arm away, glaring hot fury at John. “Why did you do that!?” he’d raged, and John had staggered back, eyes wide. “I didn’t need your help!”

“I-I just-” he’d started to stammer, and then grown indignant. “That guy is twice your size!” he’d sputtered, waving an arm in the direction Trevor had gone. “You’d be picking your own _teeth_ up off the grass if I hadn’t-”

“I had it under control!” Sherlock had exclaimed, but John had just scoffed.

“Yeah, I could see that,” he’d muttered, nodding sarcastically. “You were _clearly_ just about to turn on the Bruce Lee.”

Sherlock’s eyes had narrowed to slivers, slate slicing across the meter between them. “I can take care of myself,” he’d hissed through gritted teeth, and John didn’t know why, but he had faltered, sighing as he shook his head at the ground.

“Probably,” he’d admitted with a tired shrug, “but that doesn’t mean you always have to.”

No one had or would ever look so shocked, Sherlock entire body going slack with it. He had only remained stunned for a moment, however, and then clicked his jaw shut, stomping away across the grass in shoes John could’ve paid for university with.

The final time had been only about a month ago, sitting around the bonfire at Mary’s Guy Fawkes party. John had been nursing his second cup of Jungle Juice—which was what he blamed for the whole debacle—when Sherlock had come up behind him, kicking lightly at the leg of his chair.

“Your girlfriend’s looking for you,” he had said as John craned his neck over the backrest, peering up at the man’s inverted face, dancing yellow in the firelight.

“My what?” John had replied, tilting his head across the plastic, and Sherlock had sighed, rolling his eyes as he slipped his hands into his pockets.

“Your girlfriend,” he’d repeated, as if that would make it suddenly sensible. “She’s looking for you. Although, maybe you shouldn’t go until you remember who she is.”

“Who who is?” John had asked, turning to look up at Sherlock properly. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

Sherlock had frowned, the fire shadowing the fold between his brows. “You don’t- You’re not dating Mary?”

John had shaken his head, the movement dizzying him a bit. “Not since primary school, no,” he’d answered, smiling at Sherlock’s continued confusion. “I liked the slide; she preferred the swings,” he had added with a shrug, and, for the first time—and thus the best—John had heard Sherlock laugh.

“That is an irreconcilable difference,” the brunette had quipped back, and John had grinned, watching as the man rubbed an anxious hand up the back of his neck.

“Do you like her?” his liquor-loosened tongue had asked, and Sherlock had just blinked at him. “Mary,” John had clarified. “Do you like her?”

“Oh, no!” Sherlock had blurted, eyes wide with earnest. “No, no, I just- She just told me to find you.”

“Because it would be fine if you did,” John had added, even though something very not-fine had been wriggling in his stomach. “And I know she’s single right now.”

“I don’t,” Sherlock had insisted, shaking his head. “I- Girls aren’t really-” He’d stopped, face blanching in apparent horror, and John had stamped down the rush of glee to merely a small smile.

“It’s fine,” he had muttered, shrugging. “I’m not exactly straight either. Your secret’s safe with me.”

“It’s not a secret,” Sherlock had snapped, color coming back full force in his cheeks, “and I know it’s fine.”

“Well, good,” John had murmured back, and then the moment had grown strained, the tension somehow uncomfortable in how easy it was. “So,” he’d broken in, clearing his throat as he stood, wobbling only a little, “where is she?”

“Oh, um, up at the house,” Sherlock had muttered, turning and waving an arm at the lit windows. “Something about ice?” he’d added, and John had laughed.

“Yeah,” he’d chuckled, shaking his head as he passed the brunette, “I was supposed to fill the coolers. And carry them down here, of course.”

“Of course,” Sherlock had echoed, smiling as John laughed.

It still haunted John, that moment, a stretched second of staring with soft smiles and crackling orange light before Sherlock had cleared his throat.

“Well, I’ll…leave you to it,” he’d muttered, hand bobbing in a flick of his wrist before he was gone, a specter fading into the night with a swirl of a dark coat.

That, John knew, was when the trouble had really started, his fate sealed from the second he’d heard Sherlock’s low rumble of a laugh. In the month since, he’d gone from thinking about Sherlock often to never stopping, the boy a constant presence in the back of his mind. He invaded everything, even the blues and greens of the world evaluated in John’s brain by what shade of Sherlock’s eyes they matched, and John was perpetually exhausted, caught in the constant adrenaline crash of being hyperaware of his presence. And Sherlock—damn him—wasn’t helping, seeming actually _aware_ of John’s existence now, their eyes meeting in sidelong grazes and almost imperceptible twitches of smiles.

And now, on top of every other thing he worried about fucking up on a daily basis, convinced that one wrong move would shatter the tenuous progress he’d made, he had to get Sherlock a present. Fantastic.

John sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face as he wandered through the shopping center, scanning window after window for inspiration. He passed the sporting goods store, Sherlock somehow not seeming the type, actually hastened his steps past Topman—the larger-than-life, half-naked pictures always unnerving him a little—but did go into the bookstore, that at least having a snowball’s chance in hell. Of course, the second he got in there, winding his way aimlessly through the shelves and pre-Christmas crowd, he realized it was a waste of time, not knowing Sherlock well enough to even begin to guess what literature he was interested it.

He ended up in the astronomy section, somehow always winding his way there whenever left in a bookstore for too long, the siren call of his childhood dream of being an astronaut never quite drowned out by ‘real world expectations’. He flipped through a few titles, frowned down at a few price tags, and was just turning around to put the latest Neil deGrasse Tyson volume back on its shelf when his shoulder collided heavily with someone passing him in the aisle.

“Oh, sorry, I-” He stopped, meeting unmistakable eyes that widened as he watched.

“John!” Sherlock spluttered, backing away, and John’s breath caught at hearing his name in Sherlock’s voice, only the first time and he already wanted to demand he say it again. “What- What are you doing here?”

“I-” John stammered, blinking down at the book in his hand, the object suddenly foreign. “Books,” he muttered, bobbing the title toward the shelf, and then swallowed, rallying his mental faculties to not make him sound like a moron this time, please, god! “I-I was looking at books. For Christmas. For my mum,” he added hastily, gripping the cover tighter to hide the tremble of his hands.

Sherlock frowned, head tilting as his eyes trailed down John’s blue rugby jacket to the book in his grasp. “Your mother likes…space?” he asked, and John thought his face might be melting off.

“No, um, this- I couldn’t really find anything for her, so I just thought I’d look around a bit,” he mumbled, shrugging a shoulder as he flicked at the corner of the cover.

“So, you like space?” Sherlock supposed, tone a touch more eager than seemed warranted, and John looked up at him, tilting his head.

“Yeah,” he answered hesitantly. “Why?”

Sherlock eyelids flickered in a blink, jaw setting closed. “No reason,” he clipped with a spasm of a shrug. “Just…curious.”

John hummed, nodding as he glanced down at the volumes in Sherlock’s pale hands. “What about you?” he asked, bobbing his head at the haul when Sherlock frowned.

“Oh!” he blurted, scrabbling at the books, nearly dropping one as he lifted the cover toward John, “Melittology,” he answered, and John blinked at the cover, hoping he’d miraculously understand.

“Wow,” he said, nodding vaguely, “that sounds…Latin.”

Sherlock laughed, John’s vision blurring a moment. “Greek, actually,” he shrugged, adding the book back to the pile. “It’s the study of bees.”

“Bees?” John echoed, tilting his head, brow creasing, and Sherlock nodded.

“Yeah, I-I like bees,” he mumbled, twitching at the books as his feet shuffled against the carpet, and John was trying to figure out a way to say ‘That’s adorable!’ without saying anything remotely close to ‘That’s adorable!’ when a woman appeared at Sherlock’s back, letting out a sharp huff of frustration as her eyes settled on the dark curls.

“There you are!” she snipped, and Sherlock whipped around, fingers tightening white on his books. “Drag me out during the _Downton Abbey_ marathon, and then _abandon_ me! I have half a mind to let you figure out what to get-”

“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock blurted, and the woman blinked, startled, her eyes finally looking over the boy’s shoulder to find John. “This is John,” he added, slowing strangely over the name, and, though John couldn’t see his face, he could see Mrs. Hudson’s eyes open wide with shock in response to the expression on it.

“John?” she pressed, and Sherlock’s curls bobbed in a sharp nod. “The rugby one?”

Sherlock made a sound John suspected was more often the swan song of road kill, the back of his neck reddening.

John, on the other hand, beamed, his cheeks actually aching with it. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, moving up to Sherlock’s side as he extended a hand. “John Watson.”

“Martha Hudson,” Mrs. Hudson replied, taking his hand in a brief bob, “and just call me Mrs. Hudson, dear. Ma’am is for when I stop dyeing my hair,” she added with a wink, and John laughed, their hands dropping apart.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Hudson,” he said with a nod, and the woman smiled warmly at him.

“And you as well! Sherlock’s told me”—a sudden cough from Sherlock—“very little,” she finished hastily, and John bit his lip to beat back a grin. “You are on the rugby team, though, aren’t you?” she asked, and John nodded.

“Yeah, have been for a few years now. Captain this year.”

“Captain!?” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, and, in even that brief display, she was more proud of him than his entire family combined. “Well, that’s something! Why didn’t you mention that, Sherlock?” she questioned, tilting her head at the boy.

A muscle in Sherlock’s jaw twitched. “I didn’t consider it germane,” he replied tersely, and Mrs. Hudson tutted, flicking a hand at him.

“Nonsense! I like to know things about your friends,” she snipped, and Sherlock flinched. “So, John,” she began, turning to him once more, “what brings you out today?”

“I-I was just looking around,” he muttered, smiling stiffly as he shrugged. “Bit behind on my shopping this year.”

Mrs. Hudson scoffed. “Aren’t we all! And I’d swear the crowds are worse this year than ever!”

“They are pretty bad,” John agreed, turning to look out through the store. “The line at Costa is probably halfway ‘round the first floor.”

“Nearly,” Mrs. Hudson chuckled, and then her eyes widened with dawning thought. “You know, how about you join us for dinner?” she said excitedly, not pausing long enough for John to object. “I can take your things and pay, and you two can go get us on the list at Pizza Express!”

“I-I couldn’t,” John stammered, shaking his head, but Mrs. Hudson shook hers right back.

“Of course you could!” she urged. “Unless you have other plans,” she added, raising a brow.

John opened his mouth, glancing to Sherlock for direction, but his face was empty of hint. “Well, no, but-”

“Then it’s settled!” she chirped, clapping her hands together. “Now, Sherlock, you give me yours,” she ordered, plucking the volumes from Sherlock’s hands, “and, John, you give me that one-”

“Oh, no,” John argued, shaking his head as he held the book away, “I-I wasn’t going to-”

“Give me the book, dear,” she repeated, and, as if the words held some hidden power, John was handing over the title before he remembered giving his arm permission. “There,” she said, smiling triumphantly over the stack in her arms. “Now, you two get going. We wanna beat the dinner rush.”

John hovered, glancing at Sherlock in hesitation, the brunette matching his gaze.

“Go!” Mrs. Hudson cajoled, bumping them lightly as she ushered them toward the front, and, once again, John was powerless not to obey, weaving around tables and customers until he and Sherlock passed through the entrance.

Once outside the bookstore, they stopped, moving against the wall in wordless synchronicity.

“I-I don’t have to come,” John said, breaking the taut quiet. “If-If you don’t want me to. I mean, I wouldn’t wanna impose, and, really, we hardly even-”

“No, I-” Sherlock interjected, eyes skittering across the tile flooring as he swallowed. “It’s fine,” he said, lifting his face to John’s with a nod. “Really, I- It’s fine. Might be nice, actually,” he added with a chuckle, “not being the one she’s interrogating for once.”

“Oh, god,” John groaned, and Sherlock laughed, bobbing his head to encourage John to follow along. “Is it really gonna be that bad?”

“Do you want the truth, or one of those reassuring platitudes people seem so fond of?” Sherlock asked, smirking as he tilted his head, and John grinned.

“Reassuring platitude, please,” John requested, and Sherlock laughed again, the sound steadily climbing up higher in the annals of John’s favorites.

“It won’t be that bad,” he said grandly, pushing out the mall entrance as they headed up the street toward the restaurant. “Practically painless. You won’t feel a thing.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” John muttered, and Sherlock smiled. “I’m having dentist flashbacks.”

Sherlock chuckled, slipping his hands into his pockets as they walked.

The quiet wasn’t awkward, not really, but John made everything a little awkward when it came to Sherlock Holmes, so he opened his mouth, blurting the first thing that came to mind.

“Hey, you doing Irene’s Secret Santa thing?” he asked, and Sherlock’s steps stuttered on the pavement.

“Er, yeah,” he murmured, nodding down at the ground. “Yeah, I- Why? Are you?”

“Yep,” John clipped, “sure am. Any idea what you’re getting yet?”

“Not a clue,” Sherlock grumbled morosely, and John laughed, nodding in miserable commiseration.

“Me neither. Who do you have?”

“I can’t tell you that,” Sherlock contested. “It’s against the rules.”

“And do you always play by the rules, Mr. Holmes?” John drawled, immediately regretting it, his fallback flirting emerging at the most inconvenient times.

Sherlock, however, only chuckled. “Of course,” he replied, smirking, “but only when I get to write them.”

John smiled, stomach rocketing up against his ribs as they were caught in yet another tableau of staring. “Fair enough,” he finally said, bobbing his head as he slipped his hands into his pockets, and Sherlock chuckled, low and deep, and the warmth in John’s chest lingered for hours.

*****

In all honesty, it had been easier when he didn’t know anything about Sherlock Holmes, but hindsight was always 20/20.

Dinner with Mrs. Hudson had gone almost suspiciously well, his knee bumping against Sherlock’s under the table as they sat beside one another in the booth, a happenstance they both stopped apologizing for after a while. Then there’d been school the next week, almost every break of which had been occupied with Sherlock’s company. John hadn’t thought it was possible to be even _more_ aware of the boy’s presence, but he was now, always turning around to the door the second the brunette walked into class, lunch, or homeroom. Of course, that might have been because he checked _every_ time someone walked in, but there was a certain rush in his stomach when it was Sherlock, a smile automatically hitching up on his face before he’d even laid eyes on the boy.

Yes, John had definitely been better off before, before he’d ever known that Sherlock wanted to go into chemistry, that he had a knack for solving crimes just from what was printed in the newspaper—a claim John had needed to test, of course, which had only resulted in him being unable to stand before conjuring up a vivid image of his cousin’s birth video he’d been forced to watch last Christmas—that he hated mushrooms with a comical passion—“They’re fungi, John! Fungi! People make a living _removing_ it!”—that he tapped his pencil on his notebook when he knew the answer, but didn’t want to raise his hand again, that he rolled his eyes more often than anyone ought to, that his hair actually had six shades of brown, exactly the way his eyes wrinkled when he laughed, the way a blush spread across his cheek, and the way John’s own heart skipped so many beats in a day, he was considering looking into pacemakers.

Before he’d known Sherlock Holmes, he had been intriguing, a frustratingly attractive mystery that hovered unattainable on the fringes of John’s life. Now, however, he seemed…possible, which made the gift burning a hole in John’s backpack all the more important, and he could hardly breathe as the end of the day drew near, everyone supposed to hang around a few minutes to exchange presents.

He picked up a few things from his locker, and then made his way toward the classroom, heart steadily rising to thunder in his ears, but a shout broke through the din, pulling him up short outside the door.

“I knew it!” an unmistakable voice bellowed, and John peered inside the room, finding Sherlock jabbing a furious finger at Irene. “You rigged it! I _knew_ you rigged it!”

“Why are you yelling!?” Irene barked back, arms flinging out wide. “You should be thanking me! You never would’ve talked to him otherwise!”

“Exactly!” Sherlock exclaimed, fingers tugging through his hair. “It’s only because of your _stupid_ Secret Santa that he even knows I _exist_!”

“So?” Irene snapped, crossing her arms. “What does it matter how it happened?”

“Because!” Sherlock snarled, spinning on his heels as he began to pace in short, sharp steps. “He’s only talking to me to figure out what to get for a gift! As soon as this absurd activity is over, I’ll just be the _freak_ in the back of Biology again!”

“Um.”

The room froze as John pushed inside the door, a small audience of Molly and Mary the only other people witnessing the altercation.

“No,” he murmured, shaking his head as he glanced around the classroom, eyes settling on Sherlock’s wide horrified ones. “I-I’m not- You are talking about me, right?”

“No,” Sherlock blurted, Irene snapping “Yes” the same instant, and John looked between them, brow rising.

Sherlock bit his lip, eyes closing in a brief grimace, and then he hissed a sigh, looking up to the ceiling before tipping his head in silent acquiesce.

John tucked his chin, twitching a smile down to the ground as he stepped closer, fingers twisting into the strap of his backpack. “Well, I- I’m not-” He stopped, passing a look between Irene, Molly, and Mary, eyebrows rising, but they only blinked dumbly at him. He cleared his throat, bobbing a nod back behind him to the door, and Mary snapped to attention.

“Right,” she clipped, grabbing Molly by the arm as she ushered them up the row, “let’s just- Well, I don’t need an excuse, really, do I?” She pushed at Irene’s back, the brunette fixing her with a glare over her shoulder, but she complied, narrowing her eyes pointedly at John as she passed, and John heard the threat in that loud and clear.

The classroom door closed behind them, John turning to assure it was actually shut, and then looked back to Sherlock, who was decidedly looking away.

“So,” he muttered, shuffling closing to the man, “I guess Secret Santa’s not so secret anymore.”

Sherlock sniffed derisively, a twist of a smile on his lips as he shook his head. “No, I suppose not,” he answered, flicking a hesitant glance up through his lashes.

John opened his mouth, speech failing him at first, but he closed his lips and swallowed, going for two. “Sherlock, I- I didn’t- It’s not because of the Secret Santa,” he said softly, shaking his head.

Sherlock did not reply, merely continued watching him, eyes narrowing skeptically, and John sighed, running a hand back through his hair.

“I-I wanted to talk to you before, I just- Well, I always managed to muck it up,” he muttered, and Sherlock breathed a gentle laugh. John smiled, shuffling his feet on the tile. “I didn’t- I never thought you were a freak,” he said, and Sherlock’s eyes snapped to his, disbelieving, “and-and I’m not going to. I- That’s- I like you.” He shrugged a shoulder, his turn now to look away. “You’re- Well, I like you,” he repeated, fingers lifting to scratch at his throat, “and I like being around you, and- Well-” He broke off, pulling his backpack around to his side as he unzipped the front pocket, sliding out the envelope. He swallowed, hesitating a moment as he looked down at the terrible mistake, and then, with a deep breath, thrust his arm out to the brunette. “Here,” he blurted, the envelope quivering in his grasp, and Sherlock’s brow furrowed, his fingers tentative as they slid it free. John snapped his hands to his sides, tapping his palms nervously against his thighs as he watched Sherlock peel up the flap, long digits slow with care as they pulled free the two strips of paper.

He frowned, tilting his head as he read the small black print, and then blinked, lips popping apart.

“The Natural History Museum has an entomology exhibit going right now, I guess. Which is Greek, I checked this time,” he added, and Sherlock laughed, lifting the backs of his fingers to his mouth. “And I think there’s some special bit about bees—something about their social structures or whatever. There’s a pamphlet in there. I-I wasn’t really sure what most of it meant, so…” He trailed away, shrugging as he slipped his hands into the pockets of his jeans, rocking back and forth on his heels.

Sherlock did not reply, simply smiled softly, reaching around behind him to pluck his own envelope from his back pocket. “Yours,” he muttered, nudging it toward John’s chest, and John’s fingers nearly fumbled it, thrumming with nervous energy as he was.

He scraped open the envelope, slipping his fingers inside to find two rectangles of paper, white and glossy with bold black printing. “The-The planetarium?” he asked unnecessarily, the word quite clearly spelled out in front of him as he pulled the tickets free.

Sherlock shrugged, smiling as he twisted at a curl just behind his ear. “Great minds,” he muttered, and John huffed a laugh, blinking down in bemusement.

“Yeah, I- I guess we have a pretty full Saturday,” he replied, chuckling as he looked back up, but Sherlock’s expression was slack with shock.

“You- We?” he murmured, head shaking dimly as he blinked. “You-You mean- You want-” He stopped, finger pointing between them, and John’s throat momentarily constricted as his face exploded into flame.

“Well, I- I just assumed. I mean, there’s two tickets.”

“No, no, I- _I_ meant that, I just didn’t realize _you_ would-would want-”

“Why not?”

“I-I don’t know,” Sherlock murmured, twisting at the tickets in his hand as his eyes dropped to John’s chest, and John wondered how much longer he could hold out before that ‘adorable’ inevitably slipped in.

“Well, then,” he said, smiling brightly as Sherlock peered up, cheeks darkening, “looks like we’ve got ourselves a double date.”

Sherlock laughed, shoulders relaxing as he shook his head. “I’m fairly certain this is not the intended use of that phrase,” he remarked, and John grinned.

“Well, no,” he replied, shrugging as he stowed his tickets in his backpack, zipping shut the pocket, “but I like this one better.”

Sherlock flushed even brighter, sucking his lips in to stifle a smile as his eyes darted away, and John was just about to blurt the ‘a’ word when there was a scuffle outside the door, both of their necks snapping toward the sound.

“Irene,” Sherlock muttered bitterly, shaking his head. “Waiting to gloat, no doubt.”

“Probably,” John sniffed, and then turned, casting a look over the room. His eyes alighted on the opposite wall, and he smirked, striding away.

“What are you-” Sherlock started, but broke off as John unlatched a window, grating it open with a hard tug.

He pushed it as far up as it would go, gingerly releasing his hand to test if it would stay, and then climbed up onto the ledge, one hand gripping around the window pane while the other arm stretched back inside. “Do ya trust me?” he asked, bobbing his waiting hand toward Sherlock, who tipped his head, face pinching.

“Who are you, Aladdin?” he scoffed, and John beamed.

“IIIIIII can shoooow you the-”

“Alright, alright,” Sherlock muttered, interrupting the serenade, and John laughed, grasping the boy’s cool hand in his own as he helped him out onto the ledge.

“We can drop down onto the shed,” he explained, shifting to sitting as he pointed down to the flat roof just beneath them. “And there’s a retaining wall that runs along the other side. We can reach the ground from there.” He slipped off the ledge, landing deftly onto the shed, and then turned back, finding Sherlock blinking down at him.

“How do you _know_ that?” he spouted, and John laughed, steadying him as the boy landed beside him.

“Came in late a few times,” John replied, shrugging as he led the way across to the wall, another short drop from the shed, and then slid off onto the grass, Sherlock just behind. “Didn’t want the office writing me up a late slip, so I just-”

“Scaled the _building_?” Sherlock spluttered, laughing as John’s mouth opened defensively.

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” he muttered, waving a hand back at their path. “It’s not quite high enough to consider scaling.”

Sherlock shook his head, grinning across at him. “You’re a delinquent,” he said, transparently fond, and John beamed, turning back toward the school gate.

“Riffraff, street-rat!” he started to sing, but Sherlock elbowed him on the arm.

“Stop it,” he hissed, and John threw his head back, laughing at the sky. “Think of the dogs.”

Their arms brushed together as they walked, passing through the school gate to find Mrs. Hudson waving at them from outside her car.

“Hello, John!” she chirped, pulling him into a tight hug Sherlock looked even more surprised at than he was. “How lovely to see you again! How did your test go?”

“Oh, um, alright, I think,” John replied, shrugging as he tugged his backpack higher on his shoulder. “Better than I felt about the last one, at any rate.”

“Well, that’s all that matters,” Mrs. Hudson assured, patting him on the arm with a warm smile. “Self-improvement. So, are you headed home?”

“Er, yeah,” he answered, pointing a thumb up the road.

“Right away?” Mrs. Hudson pressed, and John hesitated, casting a wary glance at Sherlock, who only shrugged.

“Well, I- I suppose I don’t _have_ to.”

“Excellent!” Mrs. Hudson chirped, and he jumped, startled at the sudden glee. “Sherlock promised he’d help me pick out paint colors for the flats I just bought, and he complains _so_ much less when you’re around.”

“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock hissed as John laughed, but the old woman only blinked, deceptively innocent.

“Yeah, sure,” he agreed, shaking his head to dismiss Sherlock’s apologetic look. “Sounds like fun. So, why did you buy a flat?”

“Flat _s_!” Mrs. Hudson corrected, waving at them to pile into the car as she rounded to the driver’s side. “Three of them! Over on Baker Street. Sherlock’s parents are planning on downsizing once he graduates, so they won’t have any need for a housekeeper. Plus, this way, I can keep an eye on him,” she added, narrowing her eyes teasingly at Sherlock through the rearview mirror as they merged out into traffic.

“How?” John asked, frowning at Sherlock beside him, both of them forgoing the passenger seat.

“Well, Sherlock’s going to live there,” she explained, and Sherlock tipped a resigned nod as John raised a brow at him. “While he goes to uni. He’s taking the flat upstairs.”

“Really?” John inquired, and Sherlock nodded again.

“Yes, it’s very nice,” Mrs. Hudson urged, nodding emphatically. “I’m planning on renovating the kitchen. And it has two bedrooms,” she added, tone just missing nonchalance, but the quirk of her brow at John in the mirror really soiled the attempt.

John’s lips twitched around a stifled grin as Sherlock groaned, turning his flushing face out toward the street. “You don’t say?” he remarked airily, and then laughed, drowning out the humiliated thump of Sherlock’s head against the window.


End file.
